


Force of Retribution

by Blue_Five



Series: Teen Wolf at the Movies [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, American Assassin AU, Assassin Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Stiles Stilinski/Jackson Whittemore, Revenge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-22 17:03:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13171332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Five/pseuds/Blue_Five
Summary: American Assassin AU - They took the one person he loved most and he wants them to pay.  Unfortunately, he never intended on falling for the brooding werewolf training him to kill.





	1. On the Beach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I never listen to the critics, I happen to love Dylan in Amercian Assassin and this is my re-imagining of the movie. I decided to add werewolves to give a little twist. Hope you like it.

"You better not drop my phone, Stilinski."

"I'm not -- why would you even say that?"

"Whose phone is sitting in our room in a bag of rice?"

"That -- whatever, dude ... your phone is safe with me."

Stiles Stilinski ignored the disparaging snort behind him and began his video again, narrating as he turned slowly.  The surf tugged lightly at his ankles as if urging him to join his companion.  Stiles felt his mouth curve into a broad smile as he turned, capturing various tourists and cabanas along the treeline bordering the beach.  It was perfect.  Everything was perfect.

"Here we are in beautiful Ibiza, Spain ... beautiful sand ..." Stiles held the phone up higher as a wave splashed him.  "Beautiful waves ... " He looked down at himself, chuckling at the brilliant sun yellow swim shorts his boyfriend hated but tolerated.  "My _favorite_ shorts and ..." Stiles scanned up to capture the broad, suntanned shoulders of the blonde man walking out into warm Spanish waters.  "My favorite guy who is, unless I'm mistaken, about to -- "

Stiles laughed when the large wave knocked his normally unflappable boyfriend off balance for a second.  He danced back, avoiding the muscled arm that darted out to snatch the phone away.

"Stop it, Stilinski, give it to me ..."

"Hey, no!  Quit!" Stiles slapped away the hand.

"Damn it, I'm serious!"

Stiles couldn't contain the bark of laughter that bubbled out of him at the frown that darkened his lover's face.  The shadow had no real menace behind it and passed over in a second.  Resigned irritation took its place. 

"Aww, look at my cutie-wootie getting all frowny-faced," Stiles baby-talked as the expected middle finger shot into frame.  "Oh real nice, babe ... come on, let me film ... we gotta capture the moment.  You know, like we're honeymooners."

The other man rolled his eyes.  "Honeymooners?  You gotta be married first, dork."

Stiles smirked at the retreating back and dug into a pocket.  A long, green cord emerged with a ring carefully tied on the end.  The platinum band with its sprinkling of small perfect diamonds sparkled in the Mediterranean sunshine.  Stiles let it swing in front of the camera lens for a minute, reveling in the warm glow building in his gut.  It had been a long time to get to this point so he wasn't about to chicken out now.  He took a deep breath and loudly cleared his throat.  When the blue-green gaze he adored was finally settled on him, Stiles swallowed hard and walked closer, the ring held out before him like a lure.

"Jackson Whittemore ... you're my best friend in the whole world ..." Stiles felt a lump grow as he watched Jackson's eyes suddenly widen and grow bright.  "Oh my god, _now?_ _Now_ you're going to get all emotional?"

"Shut - shut up, Stilinski," Jackson muttered, turning away to blink rapidly. 

Stiles' gently turned Jackson's chin back to him.  "Hey, gorgeous, let me finish ..." Jackson sniffed and nodded.  "We -- we didn't have the best of starts at this and I never thought I had a chance but I love you more than anything in my life.  Will you marry me?"

His boyfriend's eyes flashed a luminous blue very briefly over trembling lips.  Jackson looked down at the water.

"Yeah."

"Yeah?  _'Yeah'?_ "

Jackson snarled softly and his gaze snapped up.  " _Yes_ ," Jackson closed the distance between them.  He pulled their hips flush and pressed his forehead to Stiles'.  " _Yes_ , Mieczyslaw Stilinski, I will marry you ... I love you so much, you irritating, insane and so very ..." Kiss.  "... very ..." Kiss.  "... _very_ incredible dork."

Their lips brushed against each other and Stiles opened to Jackson's questing tongue.  He moaned as the blond mapped his mouth with soft strokes that had him hard against a muscular thigh that had somehow ended up between his legs.  Stiles thrust against the firm flesh with a groan.

"I'm ... I'm supposed to get _you_ ... off ... Jax ..." Stiles stuttered against Jackson's mouth.

"Mmm," the werewolf responded.  "Don't worry about it, Stilinski ... you will.  Trust me, you will ... just ... let me ..."

The cord was swiftly looped over Jackson's head and they ventured deeper into the water with lazy kicks until the sand beneath them was lost to touch and they floated.  Legs wrapped around one another and Stiles' head fell back when Jackson slid a warm hand into his swim shorts.  It closed around his cock and stroked gently.  The juxtaposition of Jackson's over-warm body temperature with the cooler water had Stiles coming in a matter of seconds.  He gasped his lover's name into a heated kiss and felt the growl rumble through Jackson's chest. 

"D-down, boy," Stiles mumbled.

Jackson chuckled.  "Dog jokes, Stiles?"

"Hey, I'm operating on limited brain cells here," Stiles protested weakly as they clung to one another.

"Yeah and how does that make it different from any other time?"

Stiles smacked Jackson smartly on the shoulder and pushed away toward shore.  "Very funny, ha ha. You know, I'm reconsidering ... maybe this was a bad idea ..."

Stiles found himself jerked against Jackson's hard frame and into an equally bruising kiss.  The desperation in it made him pull back with a frown.  "Jax?"

"I'm sorry, Stiles.  I don't know why I said that ... I'm just -- I never thought you'd ... that we'd -- _this_ ," Jackson stammered.

Stiles framed the suddenly pale face between his hands.  Even after so many years, Jackson still held a deep-seated fear of being left alone.  Of doing something to screw up and make the people he loved leave him. 

"Hey ... _easy_ , handsome.  I'm right here and you just said you wanted me so now you're stuck.  I'm not going anywhere.  Not ever," Stiles promised.  He lifted the ring.  "Do you like it?  It's a new design, but I used the diamonds from my mom's ring."

Just like that, Stiles reassured Jackson and moved on like he'd done so many times before.  The werewolf smiled and closed their hands over the piece of jewelry.  "I love it.  It's perfect."  He kissed Stiles again.  "This deserves a drink."

Stiles grinned.  "Yep.  I'll be right back."

"I'll be here, fending off my admirers."

Stiles rolled his eyes.  "You better, handsome.  You're mine now."

Jackson laughed as he followed Stiles out of the surf and veered off to their deck chairs to towel off.  Cheers and clapping followed the human's path up the beach.  Stiles waved at everyone and turned to shout back at his fiancé. 

"Hey, babe, we're getting applause!  How cool is that?"

Jackson shook his head and watched Stiles jog up to the bar.  He looked out at the gleaming water and thought of what lay ahead.  Stiles had proven his love time and time again over the four years they'd been together.  While Jackson had hoped, he'd never been entirely certain the human would want to spend the rest of his life with a werewolf.  Mixed marriages between the mundane and supernatural worlds were difficult sometimes.  Still, as humans went, Stiles Stilinski was definitely as fierce as any werewolf Jackson knew.  And he was almost fanatically loyal to whomever he loved.  Looking over at the goofily grinning man staring at him from poolside, Jackson realized that whatever the future brought, he was going to spend it with his one true love. 

* * *

Stiles turned back to the bartender and frowned at the drinks.  "Whoa, dude, maybe not _that_ strong ... I mean, he's a werewolf but I'm not and I'm pretty sure that'll --"

The bartender's head dissolved in a spray of blood and brain.  Stiles ducked instinctively but it took the man sitting beside him suddenly erupting in a scattering of dark red holes to register exactly what was happening. 

_People are being shot.  These guys were shot.  Who's shooting?  Why?  Oh my god, they're shooting everyone!_

Stiles stumbled away from the bar.  He had to get to Jackson.  Someone fell into him and suddenly Stiles was tripping over his own feet into the pool.  He heard strange whizzing sounds all around him and then he was pushing a body away from him.  Pink tendrils of blood twisted through the water.

_Jackson.  Jackson where's Jackson.  I have to find him._

Jackson was a werewolf so he had the enhanced healing factor that could actually protect him if he was shot but if he was hit too many times ... or if they shot him in the head ... Stiles forced himself out of the pool.  He darted between the couches and firepits trying not to see the people falling in front or the side of him.  Every breath he expected to feel the punch of a round as it broke through his skin and the longer that didn't happen, the more hope he allowed himself to have.

The beach was littered with bodies.  Stiles could see the shooters and it looked like they were everywhere.  He heard a roar and turned, thinking he would see Jackson, but instead it was another werewolf, shifted into his beta form and tearing the head off one of the attackers.  Stiles heart leapt into his throat when the furred body spasmed and fell lifeless to the ground.  He spun around, screaming.

" _Jackson!"_

Searing pain tore through his leg and Stiles fell over a chair.  He stared in disbelief as one leg of his shorts turned dark red.  He saw more muzzle flashes and made himself get up.  He had to find his fiancé.  Ignoring the spreading numbness, Stiles hobbled onto the beach, caught in a wave of people fleeing in every direction but with nowhere to run.  No place was safe.  No hiding places remained.  Stiles gripped the fabric of his shorts and pulled the bleeding limb along as he continued to shout for his lover.

Jackson turned, having heard Stiles' voice.  Too many scents flooded his senses and the burning of gunpowder and oil made it nearly impossible to filter them.  His ears rang with shots and screams.   He heard more than one roar or screech as a not-so-human being fell to the attack.  He knew he was already in his beta form, if he could just take down one of the --

The round tore through his chest.  At first, Jackson thought it had simply cut through his body and he'd be able to function until the wound healed.  Then he realized the terrorists knew _exactly_ what they were doing.  The cartridges were coated in something ... something that set his very cells on fire.  Something that left him just as vulnerable to being shot as a normal human.  As Stiles ...

Jackson crumpled facedown in the surf.  Each breath came on a wave of flame.  He gasped and turned his head when he heard a splash near him.  Stiles, with a jagged hole ripped through his shoulder and chest, was crawling through the surf toward him.  The amber eyes were wide with pain and fear ... but mostly with a determination to reach Jackson no matter what.  Jackson reached out toward his fiancé.  Out of the corner of his eye, Jackson spotted one of the shooters.  He didn't think.  He just pushed his werewolf metabolism to the absolute edge and lunged upward, clumsily standing between Stiles and the rifle.

_I love you, Miecz--_

* * *

Stiles awoke screaming to the echo of four shots that ended everything.


	2. Training

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Returning to this one ... sorry for the long wait. Enjoy.

It always takes Stiles a second or two to reunite his subconscious mind with reality after one of the nightmares.  The dreams are so real he fights returning to the life That Day abandoned him to ... a life that doesn’t include Jackson’s warm body beside him.  Lying in the surf that day watching the light dim in his lover’s eyes, Stiles lost part of himself.  He lost the part that cared what became of him ... the part that believed life beyond his loss existed. 

Stiles sits up slowly.  It’s been a year and a half since That Day — Stiles’ wounds have long since healed but they left a legacy of stiff muscles and aching bones.  The doctors explained that the ammunition used by the terrorists was designed to fracture upon impact hence the massive scarring on Stiles’ torso.  They were meant to cause as much damage as possible to both human and fae targets.  The pain will be his companion for the rest of his life but Stiles doesn’t mind so much.  He sees the discomfort as nothing more than a tool to be used as a way to focus his mind and keep him zeroed in on his goal.

_Really, Stilinski?_

Jackson’s disapproval tugs at Stiles’ mind, the familiar voice a near-constant companion since That Day.  If his beloved werewolf were still here — Stiles chuckles and rubs a hand over his face.  If his lover were still here, Stiles would never have embarked on this path.  He stretches and pops his neck.  A faint chime draws Stiles’ attention to the laptop sitting on his desk. He immediately walks over and opens the message app.

Not for the first time since he began this journey is Stiles grateful for his ability to grasp difficult subjects easily.  It drove Jackson nuts during school that things he had to study relentlessly to grasp even a basic understanding, Stiles could skim and be a veritable expert on the topic.  The Arabic text glowing on his screen is a prime example — it had taken him less than two months of dedicated study to be able to read most of the common Middle Eastern languages.  

Writing them is a different matter but Stiles has a fix for that.  He picks up the flexible English-language keyboard overlay and settles it into place.  He’s ready.  

**Guest:  HOW ARE YOU TONIGHT MY BROTHER?**

The phrase “My Brother” always makes Stiles’ hair stand up.  ‘Brother’ implies a  close relationship - something sacred and precious.  Stiles feels anything but sacred about his relationship with this fucker.  Taking a deep breath, he types an answer designed to bring a specific response.

**Stiles:  I AM READY TO GO ON VACATION.**

After a pause long enough to make Stiles anxious, new text appears with a hyperlink.

**Guest:  CLICK ON ENCRYPTED LINK, THEN DOWNLOAD FILE.**

Stiles knows he’s treading on thin ice.  It’s taken him this long to reach a point where the radicals he’s trying to deceive trust him enough to invite him to take the next step.  He wipes his hands on his shorts and follows the instructions.  A typical video of military images plays backed by a sad heavy metal soundtrack. He’s seen so many of these fucking ‘masterpieces’ he’s sick to death of them.  It crosses Stiles’ mind again to wonder how any rational human being can be lulled into thinking they’re actually fighting a righteous fight when viewing these cheesy recruitment videos.

_Says the guy playing super spy._

”Shut up, Jax,” Stiles mutters.

A white man dressed in typical camo fatigues pops onto the screen and shouts macho bullshit about burning things down.  A calmer voice speaks then and  Stiles sees the face of the man that ended his old life.  He wears all black and his beard is neatly trimmed.  The man named Al-Mansur appears impassive as he talks.

“To our brothers across the globe, come join our fight against American imperialism.  They will pay for the murder of our families, our friends, and all children.”  He pauses.  “They will pay for diluting the blood of Men with their perverted demon hoard.”

Images of funerals and shrouded dead appear then — Stiles’ jaw twitches as he remembers watching Jackson’s lifeless body being put into a body bag; the ring on its cord still laying on his neck. Text appears.

**Guest:  WHAT IS IN YOUR HEART BROTHER?**

**Stiles:  I WANT TO BATHE MY HANDS IN THE BLOOD OF THE INFIDELS.**

**Guest:  WE ARE LOGGING YOUR KEYSTROKES.  ANSWER QUICKLY.**

Stiles chews on his lower lip. He’s studied long and hard for this moment.  He’s ready.

**WHO WAS TAKEN IN THE YEAR OF SORROW?**

**_KHADIJAH AND ABU TALIB._ **

**WHO WAS WITH THE PROPHET FOR THE ISRA AND MI’RAJ?**

**_THE ANGEL GABRIEL._ **

Stiles waits and the questions continue to come.  His eyes gleam in the laptop’s cold glow.

* * *

In addition to learning new languages, Stiles has added a few new skills to his repertoire.  He’s always been proficient in weapons thanks to his father being the sheriff of his small hometown.  Physically, Stiles was good enough for the lacrosse field but he’s never been much into exercise.  Jackson could pin him without even trying when they’d scuffle on the field.  Back then, it hadn’t mattered that he was basically a hundred-pound weakling.  It quickly became a necessity that he be a fighter in order to achieve his goal so Stiles signs up with a local MMA gym.  He chooses it because it’s a mixed league so he can train with werewolves like the one he’s sparring with right now.

The man is a broad-shouldered red-head who frequently finds himself on the wrong side of Stiles’ temper.  No doubt his Wolf demands that he prove himself the dominant so he keeps accepting Stiles as a partner.  Today, they’re just doing basic maneuvers; repetition, no matter how boring, keeps the muscle memory sharp.  Each of them wears protective shin guards and sparring gloves.

 _Lookin’ good, Stilinski,_ Jackson teases.   _Faster than you used to be back in the day._

Stiles snorts.   _I could totally take you now, Jax.  Pay you back for all those times you put me down on the field._

_I didn’t hear you complaining for some of those times._

Stiles feels his face heat up.  His love-life with Jackson had been anything but boring and more than once it had been a tad bit more exhibitionist than he’d intended.  Being found locked together with his boyfriend on the bleachers after a game by his dad case in point.  John Stilinski had been less than —

Pain, sharp and sudden, blossoms across Stiles’ jaw.  His opponent takes advantage of Stiles’ temporary mental distraction to land a blow.  In an instant, Stiles is done playing nice.  He tackles his partner to the ground, ignoring the complaint in his shoulder when he connects with hard werewolf muscle.  

 _Watch this, handsome,_ Stiles tells Jackson.

Moving quickly enough that the werewolf’s reflexes don’t catch him, Stiles slams his opponent to the mat and then flips him.  Instinctively, the wolf brings his knees up and braces himself on his forearms in preparation to throw Stiles back.  Stiles, however, doesn’t back down. He leans on the man with his entire weight and drives his knee into the wolf’s side over and over.  It hurts like a bitch but Stiles doesn’t stop.  He can’t stop.  He can never, ever stop because the one time he didn’t give everything he had — he lost everything.  

“Alright, enough!”  The man grunts.  When the assault continues, he raises his voice.  “Alright, stop!  Come on, man!”

_Not so easy to beat the weak little human is it, asshole?_

Stiles grins maniacally at his lover’s approval.  He clambers over the still-kneeling wolf and wraps his legs over his shoulders.  Throwing himself backwards, Stiles takes the werewolf over and leaves him flailing like a turtle on his back.  His hands close around the werewolf’s neck and suddenly the protests stop as the wolf begins to put breathing as his priority.

”Ok, stop ... stop!  I said break it up!”

Stiles releases his opponent and rolls to his feet while the instructor eyes the werewolf now recovering on his mat.  He shakes his head and points at the door.  

“That’s it, Stilinski, you’re out of here,” he orders.  When Stiles doesn’t move, he snarls, his eyes gleaming gold.  “Get out!”

Stiles rolls his eyes.  Like a werewolf flashing eyes at him is scary or something.  He jerks off his gloves and changes into his street clothes.  Snatching up his duffel, Stiles heads out.

”Have a nice fucking day.”

* * *

Walking down the sidewalk, Stiles feels the adrenaline slowly fading from his bloodstream.  He exhales shakily.

 _Always were a hothead, babe,_ Jackson chides.

_Whatever.  That bastard had it coming - he always takes the sucker punch._

Stiles ignores the feeling that someone is watching him.  He’s got enough ghosts in his life, thank you very much.

* * *

The shooting range is a small one.  Stiles likes to know the faces around him these days even if he never bothers to learn names.  Not many werewolves or fae Creatures — he’s pretty sure that the loud noises make it less than enjoyable for those with enhanced hearing.  Jackson  _hated_ his taste in music.  Loud bass, drums ... basically everything that set off a werewolf’s nerves.

_Yeah, you did it on purpose, Stilinski.  I know you did._

Stiles shrugs.   _Maybe at first ... I thought you were letting yourself be dragged into something you didn’t really want._ He fires a clean double-tap.   _I wanted you to be sure._

_You never take the easy path, babe.  Gotta push the limits every time._

Stiles sets his mouth and fires again.  And again.  Kill shots each time.  He has to be certain of his aim because when he takes the final shot, he can’t afford to miss.

His clip empty, Stiles picks up the rifle and fires off a short burst.  He doesn’t see the looks that his fellow shooters are giving him.  Instead, he empties that clip and moves on to the fully automatic Uzi.  Lost in his memories of bullets zipping past him in the water, Stiles responds to the memories.  One after another, he shreds the targets.  He steps across the firing line and onto the range itself.  His gun bucks firmly in his grasp.  Dead and dying bodies litter the sand.  Empty blue-green eyes look up at him.

_Always gotta push the limits, Stilinski ... always._

Stiles grabs his gear and stalks out of the shooting range.  He doesn’t hear the shouts of anger and warnings not to return as the door closes behind him.

* * *

The punching bag doesn’t offer much of a response to the softly muttered curses Stiles says to it with each strike.  It just remains a target for his rage and grief, same as always.  It takes the abuse even as Stiles feels his knuckles split and bleed beneath his gloves.  He only hits harder.  Sweat pours down his face and trickles along his shoulder blades.  Stiles feels the ache deep in his bones as the blows get harder and harder.

_Jax ... Jax ... baby, please ... please don’t die ... please ..._

Stiles feels soft, warm lips drift across his nape and he sags against the punching bag, hugging the stained leather close with one arm.  Stiles pulls his free hand from the glove using his teeth and slides it into his shorts.  Sobs escape as he bites down hard on the bag, stripping himself with only sweat and blood to lube the way.  

_Jax ... Jax, gods I miss you ... JaxJaxJax ..._

The orgasm comes and for a brief groaning second, Stiles sees his lover smiling up at him from crisp white sheets, their bodies bathed in sunlight.  Then reality and pain dissolve the vision.  Stiles slides down the bag to his knees, his cheek rocking against the leather covered in his cum while he hoarsely sobs. 

_Don’t leave me ... don’t ..._

Jackson doesn’t respond and he doesn’t feel the kiss again.

* * *

Stiles showers and dresses in relatively clean clothes before snatching up his throwing blades for a little practice.  The rhythmic thump of the knives sinking into wood calms him and lets him slip out of his head for a while.  He only vaguely registers the knocking at his door when it becomes a little more insistent than his target practice.

Stiles shuts the closet and opens his door with the chain in place.  He relaxes a bit when he sees it’s just his next door neighbor.  Unfortunately, the man looks irritated.

”Stilinski, why I gotta tell you again?”

Stiles winces.  “Sorry, Mr. Nazir,” he offers.  “I didn’t realize it was after 10.  I’ll try to keep it down.”

The man shakes his head before yawning and heading toward his own apartment.  “Enough with the sports.”

”Copy that, Mr. Nazir.  Thanks.”

Stiles locks his door and runs a hand over his face before opening the closet again.  There, situated dead center, is a photo of Al-Mansur.  Stiles pulls the blades free and walks back to his desk.  He suddenly spins and puts one directly between the picture’s eyes.  His computer chimes before he can alienate his neighbor with more practice.  Stiles drops the blades on his desk as he looks at the message waiting.

**Guest:  WILL YOU COME HERE?**

_Finally,_ Stiles thinks.   _Finally, it’s time._

**Stiles:  ALLAH WILLS THAT I JOIN THE STRUGGLE WHEREVER I AM CALLED.**

_****Time for that vacation, Stilinski.  Time to find out if you’ve got what it takes.  Time to prove how much you loved me._

Stiles feels tears sting against his eyes.   _More than everything, Jax._ _I’m coming.  Just a little longer.  Wait for me._


End file.
